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To Rule Is To Ruin

Pairing: prince!Sunghoonx seneschal!reader

Genre! Angst, Slow Burn, Royal Au, forbidden love/relationship, slight smut, suggestive, forced marriage, mentions of diplomacy and royal ties, both hoon and the reader are held back because they can't confess to each other.

CW: Betrayal, blackmail, scandal

Summary: In the frostbitten kingdom of Vredon, power is earned not through love, but loyalty. Sent to serve as seneschal to Crown Prince Sunghoon, Lady Y/n Grace is brilliant, calculating, and indispensable, but never chosen. Not officially. Not publicly. And not when it matters most. In a court where love is weakness and power is survival, Y/n must choose: Will she rule through ruin, or let ruin rule her?

Word Count: 7466

🗂🕯️ Taglist: (To my wonderful followers, my lovely mutuals, those who reblogged some of my posts, and one who wanted to be added to the taglist<3)

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—✦—✦—✦—

There were five kingdoms beneath the stars.

Laverity, with its swan-throated royals and silver gardens, where elegance was law and the family name Grace meant divinity. A Grace girl doesn’t beg. She orchestrates. Currently ruled by the House of Grace.

Thalassa, born of tide and tempest, its daughters raised by salt and diplomacy. The sea doesn’t ask permission to rise. Currently ruled by the House of Nero.

Solis, the golden jewel of the east, where light was power and bloodlines were burned into banners. What they scorch, they sanctify. Currently ruled by the House of Luceat.

Wijsheid, cloaked in parchment and prophecy, where wisdom ruled louder than kings ever could. They do not play the game. They built the board. Currently ruled by the House of Kennis.

And Vredon, the High Kingdom. The throne of thrones. The place where all roads bled. Power is not taken. It is inherited… or paid for in silence. Currently ruled by the House of Park.

And you, born from one, Infanta Y/n Meredith Grace of Laverity. Trapped inside another. Raised to curtsy like a dagger and speak like a lullaby. But you ended up in Vredon, hands ink-stained, crownless, and more powerful than half the court.

You were never meant to stay in Vredon. But then again, when had your life ever gone the way you had meant.

—✦—✦—✦—

Five Years Prior:

The lilies had bloomed late that year. You remembered, because you hated lilies. Too perfect. Too waxy. Too desperate to be loved.

That morning, the garden smelled like wet porcelain, too white, too sweet, too artificial. Irene loved them.

Your father had requested your presence at the marble table beneath the glass veranda. He did not often request. You dressed quickly. Polished boots. Ivory gloves. No rouge. He hated rouge.

When you arrived, Sir Alaric Grace did not look up. He made a final move on the chessboard between you, ivory bishop to black king.

“You leave for Vredon in three days,” he said. Your spine straightened before your mind could catch up. “For what purpose?” “To serve.”

The word landed hard. “Serve whom?” “The House of Park. You are to become seneschal to the Crown Prince.”

The Crown Prince. The throne of Vredon. That meant Sunghoon. A boy you had never met.

“Why me?” you asked, too calm. "Why not Irene?”

That was the first time he looked up. His eyes were grey as smoke and twice as choking. “Because Irene,” he said, voice lined in polished steel, “is the future Queen of Vredon.” You didn't show your surprise. You knew father always had a vision of marrying off Irene to the crown prince, but you didn't know he would actually do it.

He waited. He let the words bleed. “She need not work.”

You didn’t flinch. You had learned not to, in this house. But something in your throat curled and burned.

You wanted to speak:

Of the nights you stayed up memorizing lineage maps

Of the Wijsheid treaties you could recite by heart

Of the letters you’d rewritten for your father, unsigned, to keep alliances from collapsing

Of the fact that you wanted the crown, too

That you had never been foolish enough to say it aloud

But instead, you lowered your eyes to the chessboard.

Your king was gone. Only pawns remained.

Later that night, Irene sat at your vanity brushing her own hair.

“You’ll write, won’t you?” she said softly, as if this wasn’t everything she ever wanted, don't pretend you care.

“Of course.” you answered, bitterness lacing your voice slightly as you tore your eyes away from her.

She placed your favorite brooch into your palm. The swan one. The one mother had given to you instead of her. She had snatched it, and you father sided with her.

“You’ll do well,” Irene whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’ve always been better at pretending to be small.” A hundred bees were prickling your skin.

When the carriage left for Vredon, you didn’t cry. Not for Laverity.Not for Irene. Never for Irene. Not even for yourself.

But when you reached the gates of the High Kingdom, and no one came to greet you? Not even the prince whose empire you were meant to run?

That’s when you understood:

You weren’t being sent to serve.

You were being discarded. Sent to Vredon like a pawn dressed in velvet. But what the Grace family didn’t account for… was how well a pawn could learn to rewrite the board.

The first thing you noticed was how dark it was.

Vredon had no patience for light. The castle was carved from stone so black it swallowed sunlight whole. The torches lining the halls gave off a glow that barely warmed the walls. The High Kingdom did not welcome. It tolerated. And you, apparently, were to be tolerated.

A servant met you at the gates.

Not a lord. Not a steward. Not the prince.

“You’ll be quartered in the East Wing,” the man said flatly. “Seneschal offices are two floors down. You’re expected tomorrow before the tenth bell.”

That was it.

No fanfare. No banquet. Not even a name.

Just a key in your hand and silence in your wake. That night, you unpacked your things yourself. No maids had been assigned. You didn’t know whether that was a test or an insult.

You placed your brooch in the drawer beside your bed and stared at the stone ceiling.

You were an Infanta of Laverity. A Grace by blood. A girl who had once waltzed with foreign heirs and debated war logistics with ministers twice her age.

And now? You were just a seneschal. But you would wear the title like you were always meant to. Needless it mean you would serve your sister in the near future.

You met Prince Park Sunghoon on the third day. Not by invitation. But because you walked into the war room unannounced.

The council had started the meeting without you. You entered anyway, head held high, gloves buttoned to the wrist, voice steady.

“If I’m to coordinate your foreign appointments, I suggest you don’t hold them behind my back.” The conversation paused. A few ministers stiffened. And at the far end of the table, dressed in black with no crown on his head, sat the prince.

Sunghoon looked up slowly. He was younger than you expected. Sharper. Quieter. His eyes met yours, unreadable. He looked as ethereal as any angel your mother had ever described. Sharp features, eyes that held a thousand years of experience, robes so regal you would have mistaken him for the High King himself.

Then, he said nothing. Just nodded once. And let you sit.

After That: You were given full clearance to the war table. Your signature began to appear on Vredon’s letters. The council stopped calling you “the girl from Laverity.” They called you “the Seneschal.” His Seneschal. Even if he never said a word about it.

You and Prince Sunghoon didn’t speak much that first year. And when you did, it was never kind. He questioned everything you wrote. You rewrote everything he approved.

“Thalassa won’t accept that trade deal,” you said one evening, shoving a revised copy across the table. “Then we’ll threaten blockade,” he replied coolly. “And have them rally with Solis?” you snapped. “Brilliant. Let’s start a war before winter.”

He said nothing. Just looked at you like you were noise. So you looked at him like he was a child playing crown. The council took bets. Some said you’d be sent back to Laverity by spring. Others said he’d break you by summer.

But then spring passed. And summer passed. And in autumn, something shifted.

It started with silence. The prince stopped interrupting.

You would speak, and instead of cutting in, he would… listen. And then, implement. Your words became policy. Your notes turned into law. You were running the High Kingdom of Vredon.

“We don’t have time for this,” you hissed in the map room, fingers dragging across territory lines. “You don’t get to decide that,” he shot back. “No, Your Highness,” you spat, stepping closer. “I just get to clean up after you.”

You were breathing too fast. So was he. His gaze dropped to your lips for just a moment.

Neither of you said another word. But that was the first night you stayed in the war room until dawn. Together. Side by side. No space between chairs.

He stopped calling you “Grace.” Started saying “Y/n.” Only when no one else was in the room. As if the name itself was dangerous. You never said “Sunghoon.” But once, when he fell asleep at his desk, you whispered it. He didn’t wake. But his hand twitched like he’d heard it anyway.

By winter’s end, no one dared speak over you in council.

And by the second year?

They had stopped calling you “seneschal” and started calling you something worse.

The prince’s girl. You never corrected them. And neither did he.

—✦—✦—✦—

Present Day:

The morning Lady Victoria was due to arrive, the court felt colder than usual.

Vredon was never warm to begin with. It was a kingdom built on winter stone and silver-tongued diplomacy, not sunlight. But today, the chill seeped deeper, through the marble floors, under the carved doors of the council chamber, curling around the ankles of servants who whispered and bowed and ran.

You stood in the grand corridor outside the throne room, your hand gloves pulled tight, frostbitten protocol in one hand and a list of diplomatic titles in the other. Three ministers waited behind you like shadows, all murmuring about the coming guest, about the Sea Court, about marriage.

“Thalassa’s dowry includes two fleets,” one said. “Her father wants a Vredonian heir in the next year,” another added.

You turned, slow and cold. Your name was not spoken. But they looked at you like you were in the way. You cleared your throat.

“You’re muttering like fishwives. If Lady Victoria arrives and sees the court’s composure shattered before breakfast, she might take the ship back home.”

One of them scowled. Another glanced at your modest black gloves. Only the youngest had the nerve to respond. “With respect, Lady Grace—” “Seneschal.” He paused. “Seneschal Grace… she’s nobility. Not a merchant to be scheduled.”

You smiled. Razor-edged. “She’s exactly that. Vredon is the crown. The rest of them are just buyers.”

And behind you, like fate had timed it, the throne room doors opened.

He stepped out. Tall, gloved, quiet.

Prince Park Sunghoon.

Wrapped in fur-trimmed black, silver rings biting down his fingers, jaw set like a blade. His crown was not on his head, but the weight of it hung around him like smoke.

He didn’t look at the ministers. He looked at you. Eyes unreadable. Lips unread. He looked like five years of restraint.

“How long?” he asked, voice low and already exhausted. You held up the sealed itinerary. “Two hours.” He nodded. No sigh. No reaction. Just: “She won’t stay long.”

A pause. Then, daring: “And why’s that, Your Highness?”

He stepped closer. Just enough for your gloves to brush as you passed him the schedule. “Because I’m not looking for a wife,” he said softly. “And if I were-"

Then, lower. "it wouldn’t be her." You didn’t breathe. Not until he passed you. And even then, you weren’t sure you wanted to.

The horns sounded at the third bell. Three long notes across the eastern ramparts. the formal call of a foreign noble arrival. You stood at the foot of the Grand Staircase, cloaked in Vredon black, expression unreadable. Ministers lined the hall like marble statues, their breath held like prayer. Then the gates opened.

And she entered. Lady Victoria of Thalassa Draped in cerulean silk, the color of storm-tossed sea Her neck heavy with pearls the size of sorrows Hair like seawater in the moonlight, cool, coiled, calculated

A smile that said: I’ve already won “Your Highness,” she said, dipping just low enough to avoid insult. And Sunghoon… didn’t move.

He stood beside you at the top of the stairs. Uncrowned. Unshaken. “Lady Victoria,” he replied evenly. “Vredon welcomes you.”

The court bowed. You did not. You didn’t have to.

Because when she looked up from her curtsey… her eyes landed on you. “And this is?” she asked politely, tilting her head toward you.

Before the prince could answer, you stepped forward with a faint, lethal smile. “The seneschal,” you said. “I arrange things.”

She blinked. “Like the banquet?” “Like the empire.” Her smile froze. Just a crack. Just enough. “Of course,” she murmured. “My father spoke highly of your efficiency.”

You bowed slightly. “I hope my reputation continues to precede me.” Sunghoon, still watching the exchange with cold distance, finally stepped forward.

“You must be tired,” he said to Victoria. “Your rooms are prepared.” She turned to him, warmth returning to her smile.

“I appreciate your hospitality, Your Highness. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to… grow acquainted.” He nodded once. “Perhaps.”

Then walked past her, offering no arm, no touch, no glance.

But as he passed you? He brushed your fingers. Barely. A ghost of contact. But she saw it. They all did.

------

The garden in Vredon Castle was more ornament than oasis. Roses were forced to bloom out of season. Ivy was clipped to resemble order. Everything green was a lie.

You liked it here, it was better than the pretentious lilies back home that reminded you of every intoxicated lie your father and Irene spoke. You stood beneath the frost-glass trellis, pretending to admire the swan-shaped topiary that never quite looked right. Behind you, footsteps. Measured. Confident.

You didn’t need to turn. “Lady Victoria,” you said softly, curtseying into a graceful bow. You lived up to your name.

“Seneschal,” she replied, as if it were your real name. You turned then, only halfway. Enough to be polite. Not enough to be threatened. “Enjoying Vredon?”

She smiled. All teeth. All civility. “It’s… colder than expected. But beautiful in its own way. Much like its prince.” You gave her nothing. But your silence? That was blood in the water.

“You’ve been by his side a long time,” she continued, brushing her gloved hand along a rose petal. “Long enough to know what he values.” “Efficiency,” He used to figure skate you said coolly. “Loyalty." His parents passed away when he was five, his uncle killed them.

Restraint.” You're in love with him, but you're afraid he can't feel love.

“Mm.” Her eyes met yours. “But not obedience, I suppose?”

“No,” you said, smiling. “He has enough of that from his court.” “And yet…” Victoria stepped closer, her voice still light, conversational. “Despite all that loyalty… he hasn’t married you.”

A pause. Then,

“No crown. No title. Not even a chamber near his.” The air snapped. "I'm afraid I don't understand Lady Victoria, my only job is to keep presence under the matters of the empire with the prince. I do not understand why you speak highly of marriage and connections between us."

“For someone so indispensable,” she said, tilting her head, “you seem very… disposable.” You took a step forward. Close enough for the roses to catch on your gown. Close enough for war. “Be careful, Lady Victoria,” you whispered. “The sea may rise, but in Vredon… it drowns.” She blinked. Then smiled again. As if she hadn’t just tried to shatter you.

“We’ll see,” she said sweetly. “After tonight’s banquet.” “Yes,” you said. “We will.”

------

His door wasn’t locked.

It never was. Not for you. That was the problem.

You stepped inside without knocking, cloak still dripping from the storm outside. He was alone, standing at the table, fingers pressed to a map of naval positions that didn’t matter anymore. He didn’t look up. “If this is about Victoria,” he said, “I’ve already informed the council.”

“And not me?” That made him lift his head. You stood there, soaked in rain and fury. The kind of fury that only comes from care. From being something so close to chosen, but still always left unnamed.

“You could’ve warned me,” you snapped, stepping closer. “I spent weeks negotiating her arrival. Do you have any idea what this rejection does to the treaty?” “It wasn’t a treaty,” he said. “It was a test.” “You failed it.”

“No,” he said, voice cold. “I refused it.” “You can’t keep doing this,” you hissed. “Denying alliances. Pushing back suitors. You’re not just some boy playing king in his father’s hall, Sunghoon. You are the crown now.”

“Then stop speaking to me like I’m not.” He was closer now. Too close.

“You think I wanted her?” he asked, voice rising. “You think I care for Thalassa’s fleets or her silk-laced voice? You’ve known me five years. Tell me, Grace, what do you think I want?”

The air cracked between you. Your name in his mouth again. Like a prayer he wasn’t allowed to finish.

“I think,” you said slowly, “you want the one thing you’re not allowed to have.” You didn’t say me.

But it hovered. Thick. Loud. True. His eyes dropped to your lips.

And then, his hand slammed down on the table beside you. You flinched, he noticed. You never flinch.

“You think I don’t know that?” he breathed. “You think I don’t wake every day with your voice in my head and every night trying to forget the way you looked when you first walked into this godforsaken court like you belonged here?”

You didn’t move. “I belonged here because I made myself useful,” you whispered. “Not because you let me.” He laughed bitterly. “No. You belonged because you terrified them. Just like you terrify me.”

Then the door opened. Not all the way. Just enough. A gasp. The shuffle of footsteps. Then gone.

Someone had seen. The prince and his seneschal. Too close. Again.

------

The dress was already waiting when you returned to your quarters. Midnight-black silk. Neckline dipped just enough to whisper defiance. Pearls stitched like constellations along the hem, stars born of pressure, not light. It wasn’t a gown. It was a weapon.

Your conversation with the prince was still ringing in you ears. The way he looked at you, the way he spoke of his heart like you had been friends, the way he looked at you as if you had given him galaxies of beautiful stars.

You stepped into it alone. You always did. But the back, corseted high and tight, was impossible to reach. And you’d only just lifted your arms when,

“Allow me.” You froze. Turned slowly. And there he was. Prince Park Sunghoon. Already inside. Already watching. You didn't notice him come, you never did.

“Did you mean to break protocol,” you asked, “or did you simply forget it?” He didn’t answer. Just stepped behind you, fingertips brushing the low spine of your gown. “You shouldn’t be here,” you whispered, breath catching. “And yet,” he said, voice barely above a hum, “here I am.”

He tugged the zipper slowly, so slowly, from the base of your spine to the hollow of your neck. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His fingers were cool against you back. He snaked an arm around your stomach to keep you still.

You sighed contently, leaning your head against his shoulder, staring at the high ceiling. He didn't move. He let you be there.

The cold metal teeth sealed against your skin like a secret. “You look like a curse,” he whispered softly, his breath fanning your ear. “And I’ve never believed in prayer.”

You lifted your head and muttered a thank you. But he was already gone.

------

The ballroom was carved from moonstone and cruelty. Music swelled beneath chandeliers. Courtiers glittered in silks and secrets.

Lady Victoria entered in Thalassa blue, bright, soft, hopeful. The contrast was deliberate. So was your smile.

The ballroom had never known silence like this. The music hadn’t stopped. Not quite. But something had, the moment you appeared at the top of the marble stairs.

Black silk shimmered like smoke over coals. Each layered fold of the gown moved like shadow breaking free. And the slit up your leg, inked with your house sigils, reminded every noble present:

You may have been born Grace. But Vredon made you cruel. You did not descend. You descended. Somewhere near the dais, a Thalassan noble whispered, “She looks like vengeance married a throne.”

Lady Victoria heard it. So did Sunghoon.

But only one of them smiled. And it wasn’t the future queen.

Lady Victoria turned slightly, her hand brushing Sunghoon’s arm. “She wears your colors,” she said lightly. “How quaint.”

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He was too busy watching you.

Every step. Every breath. The way your chin tilted just enough to force the room to bow with their eyes. Sunghoon stood between you both. The court waited. This was it. The moment kings chose.

Victoria stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Your Highness.” He didn’t move. “I’ve been honored to spend time in your kingdom,” she said, voice clear, sweet. “To learn your people. To… learn you.”

The ministers murmured. The orchestra fell to a hush. He was meant to respond. He was meant to say her name.

Instead. “I am not seeking a wife.” Victoria blinked. You… didn’t.

“Not now,” he said. “Not from any kingdom. Not from any deal. Vredon stands alone.” Whispers turned to thunder. Some gasped. A few laughed. Victoria’s hands trembled. Just a little.

“This is a political mistake,” she whispered, voice shaking. “No,” he said. “It’s a personal one.”

His eyes flicked to yours. And for one second, the world narrowed.

To you. To him. To the breath between everything unsaid.

But you looked away.

Because this wasn’t victory. This was war.

And he had just set the first fire in your name. It was a declaration. You weren’t his queen. You were his seneschal.

The ball ended in fire. Not literal, but almost worse.

The rejection echoed through five kingdoms before dawn. And as the servants cleared the shattered crystal and the court whispered theories behind locked doors…

------

You woke to the scent of your sister’s perfume.

Irene Grace stood in your chambers, flanked by two guards and a letter from your father.

She didn’t bother sitting.

“He sent me,” she said, voice perfectly bored. “Said if you weren’t going to act like a Grace, he’d send someone who would.”

You didn’t flinch. “You came all this way to wear a crown that won’t fit?” “No,” she said, smiling faintly. “I came to watch you fall.”

Princess Irene Elizabeth Grace had come to become Queen Irene Park, which meant it was time to go. Back home, where the pretentious lilies still bloomed.

------

Vredon’s wind had never touched you gently. It tugged at your cloak like it, too, wanted to hold you back. The horses were ready. Your trunks, light, but heavy with everything unsaid, were already tied down. And you stood at the bottom of the palace steps, facing the gates alone.

This wasn’t exile. Not officially. But it tasted the same.

“Don’t turn around.” you whispered to yourself. “You’ll cry. You’ll beg. You’ll stay.” And a Grace girl doesn't beg.

But then, “Y/n.” Your name. Not Seneschal Grace. Not Infanta. Just your name. And somehow that was worse.

You turned. Of course you did.

And there he was, Prince Park Sunghoon, shirt unfastened, cloak thrown over one shoulder, boots half-laced like he ran through the castle without stopping. Eyes wild. Lips parted. Heart completely bare. Your brother in law. Tears sprung to your eyes thinking about it.

“You’re not leaving.” “I already have.” “They can’t do this to you.” “They already did.” “Then I’ll stop them.” “Sunghoon—” “I’ll go to your father. I’ll speak before the court. I’ll—” “You’ll what?” Your voice broke. So did he.

“Will you make me your queen? Will you defy five kingdoms for a girl you wouldn’t even dance with in public?” His silence? It answered everything. “Exactly, and besides, it's not for long, I'll be back for Irene's wedding. Farewell, your highness" you turned you back and curtseyed. “I’m not yours to fight for, Sunghoon. I never was.”

He caught your wrist, "Fuck no, I-" he swallowed, it was the first time you heard him swear, first time you saw him break composure. “I love you.” It wasn’t a confession. It was a confession, a cry, a kingdom crumbling beneath a whisper.

“I love you. I’ve loved you since the war meetings. Since you spoke over generals. Since you walked into court like fire with no name. Since the first time you told me no.” “You don’t say it when it matters,” you said bitterly. “You say it when it hurts.”

“Then let it hurt.” And then, he kissed you.

Not like a prince. Like a man being dragged into ruin and choosing it anyway. You dropped your luggage, held onto him. He laced his fingers through the strings of your corset. You got lost between the strands of his hair.

Clap. Once. Twice. Thrice. You broke apart. The kiss still echoed. So did your pulse. And on the palace balcony, in full Laverity white, stood Irene Grace. Not flushed. Not scandalized.

Just… smiling. “Well,” she said, voice as clear as bells. “That makes things easier.” You didn’t speak. Sunghoon did.

“Irene, please.” She raised a hand. Dismissive. “Oh, no. Don’t beg. I’m not here to cry. I’m here to negotiate.” She walked down the steps slowly, heels clicking like a clock counting down.

“Here’s what happens now. I write letters to all five kingdoms, Laverity, Thalassa, Solis, Wijsheid, even our beloved Vredon. I tell them the High Prince compromised the seneschal of House Grace, that he kissed her without consent,”

“Irene!” you cut her off, fuming, "It wasn't without consent, however you watching was, now I suggest-"

“—that perhaps she seduced him for power. That perhaps you seduced each other.” she continued, unaffected by your words.

She paused at the last step. Looked at both of you like a chessboard.

“Scandal. Treason. Collapse.” “You wouldn’t,” you said. “I would. Unless, of course...” She smiled. “You marry me.” “You want the crown that badly?” Sunghoon asked, voice cold.

“No,” she said. “I want her gone.” The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was explosive.

------

It arrived in the early evening, the air too quiet and the sky too pink for what followed. There was no messenger. No fanfare. Just the envelope, pressed in Vredon gold, marked with the sigil of the High Kingdom, the kind you yourself had sealed countless confidential letters with, and slid under your door like a warning.

You didn’t move at first. Just stared at it from where you sat on the cold edge of your childhood bed.

Eventually, you picked it up.

The calligraphy was cruel. “You are cordially invited to witness the union of Crown Prince Park Sunghoon of Vredon and Lady Irene Elizabeth Grace of Laverity.”

Your sister’s full name, in ink you knew she approved herself. The wedding date. The guest list. The stamped approval of all five kingdoms. And a handwritten note at the bottom:

We expect your presence, Infanta. Family above all. —Sir Grace

Not daughter, not any words of comfort, not his own handwriting either, just a formal letter he probably had one of his servants to write and send off. You dropped it. Or maybe your hands just gave up. You hadn’t cried the day you left Vredon. You hadn’t cried the day he kissed you and then chose your sister.

You hadn’t cried when you crossed the border into Laverity with nothing but ink-stained fingers and a reputation you didn’t earn. But now, with the sunset mocking you through the glass, your crownless name scrawled beside hers, and the scent of court perfume still clinging to your sleeves, You sobbed.

You folded in on yourself like parchment burnt at the edges. You curled around the invitation like it had stabbed you clean. Because it had.

You didn’t cry like a princess. You cried like a girl who was promised a future and handed a throne made of salt.

You emerged from your chambers hours later, face raw, invitation clutched in hand. “How could you let this happen?” you asked him. “You gave her to him. You sent me away.” Duke Grace didn’t look up from his wine. “Irene secured the crown.” “She secured a lie.”

“She did what you failed to do,” he said sharply. “You had the prince’s attention. His trust. His affection. And you wasted it.” You took a breath. He stood.

“Do not cry to me, girl. You were sent to Vredon for experience, and you returned with nothing but shame. She came for a wedding. And she’s leaving with a kingdom.” “She’s leaving with blood on her hands.”

“Then let her. As long as it’s not mine.” “Father—” “No. No more of this. You will attend the wedding. You will wear your house colors. And you will smile. Or so help me, I will have you married off to a forgotten coast in Wijsheid so fast your bones will shake.”

You stood there. Hands trembling. Invitation still clutched like a curse. And you realized something:

You were never his daughter. You were his pawn. Not the one that could destroy the board, the one that was sacrificed for the knights and the queens to move forward.

------

You met her in the garden. She arrived unannounced, Lady Victoria Nero of Thalassa, in storm-silk blue, cloaked in calm.

She didn’t bow. She didn’t smile. “I heard,” she said quietly. “About the engagement.” You said nothing, your red rimmed eyes must have been enough as a response.

“He doesn’t love her.” You laughed. Bitter. Hollow. “It doesn’t matter. She has a crown. And a secret. The crown was always about diplomacy and ties. When has it ever been love.?" “So do I.” That silenced you. She stepped closer.

“I knew there was something between you,” Victoria said softly, “something so pure the sea wouldn’t drown it. But now I know what I saw in her, too.”

You turned. And for the first time in weeks, hope flickered. “What?” “Ambition. But not the clean kind. The kind that poisons.” She handed you a letter. Scrawled. Torn. Sealed in panic.

“It’s from a girl in the Vredon kitchens. She heard your sister speaking to the apothecary. Asking about doses. Asking how long it takes for a man to fall sick. How long until death looks like exhaustion.”

Your blood froze. “She’s going to poison him.” your breath turned shallow. Time seemed to slow and swallow you.

Victoria nodded. “After the child is born. A child that isn’t his.”

“The servant—?” “Gone. Transferred. Bribed or dead, I can’t tell. But she’s weaving it perfectly.” “The crown will think it’s Sunghoon’s child.” “And crown the boy as heir.” You stood in the garden, Vredon wind rising from the east. “She’ll kill him.” “Unless we stop her.” she asked, inquisitively, challenging you.

"We will. Because to rule is to ruin." you nodded bravely. You were going to get what you deserved, love, and the crown. Both which your father couldn't give you.

------

They say royalty doesn’t get their hands dirty.

But in the dead of night, in a forgotten corridor beneath the Vredonian palace, two women moved like shadows—silent, veiled, and dangerous.

You wore mourning black. Not because anyone had died— but because someone was going to.

Lady Victoria Nero, with her hair pinned like a crown of knives, handed you the last vial she’d retrieved from the sea-alchemist she bribed in Wijsheid.

“It mimics the body’s surrender,” she whispered. “Fatigue. Fevers. The kind of death no one questions.”

You stared at the label. Faded. Barely legible. A skull pressed in silver.

“It takes weeks to kill,” Victoria added. “Just long enough to deliver a child.”

Your stomach turned.

“And crown it heir to the High Throne.”

------

The days leading to the wedding were agony drawn across time. The kingdom buzzed with floral arrangements, invitations, nobles arriving in silken waves. You? You dressed in shadow. Moved like smoke. Spoke only when needed.

Because you and Victoria were gathering evidence like warriors collecting steel. If to rule was to ruin, then you will rise.

The chambermaid was the first to break. A coin purse dropped heavy into her apron. A whisper shared in a prayer hallway: “I saw Lady Irene meet with a man. Late. Always behind the eastern balcony.”

The man turned out to be a servant. Transferred suddenly. Silenced permanently. Victoria found letters burned halfway through, rescued from the hearth. Phrases survived:

"Once the baby arrives, the sickness will come. He’ll fade. I’ll mourn. And the child will inherit." "Let them believe he was the father. Who else would dare say otherwise?"

You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. Because you knew, deep down, this wasn’t just treason. This was regicide premeditated.

Marked confidential. Royal. Inside:

The final nail arrived like a heartbeat too loud.

In the archives, beneath rows of forgotten treaties, Victoria found it, a sealed envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL – ROYAL FAMILY ONLY. Funny, isn't it, how words are played. It was never specified which royal family. You could easily get past the seal.

“She forged it,” you said. Voice hoarse. “Sunghoon’s signature, the alchemist’s stamp, the blood-mark.”

Victoria turned the document over, hands steady despite the storm brewing between her ribs. “Once the baby is born,” she read aloud, "Irene plans to ensure he drinks nothing but what she pours." The fire in your chest was no longer grief. It was fury.

"We can’t let the crown become a coffin," you said. Victoria nodded. “Then let’s ruin her before she gets to bury him.”

“No,” you said. “She wrote herself into the throne. And now we’re erasing her.”

------

“If we fail—” “We won’t.” You turned to her, then. Saw her not as a rival. But as a woman who had chosen you, over comfort. “Thank you,” you whispered. Victoria gave a small, bitter smile.

“If I had seen love like yours, I would’ve drowned before letting it go. So don’t let it drown you.” The bells tolled midnight. One more hour until morning. One more night until war.

And in the shadows of Vredon, two queens sharpened their truths. Not for vengeance. But for justice crowned in fire.

The palace shimmered in celebration. But you moved through it like a ghost. One in noble mourning. One in fury.

You step into the throne room an hour before the ceremony.

The throne room of Vredon had never been so full. Not even during coronations.

The palace was radiant. Hundreds of lanterns. Gold threaded through every corridor. Wine flowing like prophecy. And beneath it all, two queens walked in silence.

You wore your war gown, obsidian black, stitched with swan-feathers, daggered at the sleeves. Not the colors of the kingdom you were born into, but those of the one that accepted you.

Victoria, in Thalassan navy, a pearl-studded cloak sweeping behind her like the tide. “Tomorrow,” she said, voice low, “we step into the throne room before the crown is placed.”

All five banners hang.

Laverity’s swan feathered in silver. Oh the resentment you felt

Thalassa’s wave cresting in deep sapphire.

Solis’s blazing sun.

Wijsheid’s scroll and star.

And Vredon’s crown forged in flame.

Guests stood glittering like cut glass, cloaks pressed, tiaras affixed, and gossip simmering beneath every smile.

At the center, beneath the chandelier of ancestral swords, stood Irene Grace, in white so sharp it could wound.

Sunghoon stood beside her. Crownless still. Silent. A prince dressed for war, not a wedding.

And Sunghoon, oh, especially Sunghoon. He looked like a thousand heartbreaks and prayers. So devastatingly handsome that you had to resist the urge to throw your arms around him.

But when the chamber doors opened, he turned. And saw you. You were dressed in mourning black.Not the mourning of death. The mourning of betrayal. Of love denied. And of a truth so heavy, the floor dared not tremble beneath it.

Beside you stood Lady Victoria. Not as a guest. Not as a noble. But as a witness.

The priest begins, "You have all gathered to witness the historic union of Lady Irene Elizabeth Grace from Laverity's noble House of Grace and Prince Park Sunghoon from High Kingdom Vredon's House of Park. Anyone who objects the wedding speak now or hold your tongue forever."

And then Victoria speaks. “Before vows are made, before crowns are placed, there are lies to be burned.” “I beg your pardon?” Irene asks, cold. “No,” Victoria says, stepping forward. “You beg for mercy.”

“This is highly irregular—” one noble began. “And yet necessary,” you said, stepping forward. Eyes turned. Murmurs rose. But Sunghoon said nothing.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He simply watched you. Like a man seeing a ghost he’d buried alive.

“Before vows are exchanged,” you began, voice even, “there are truths that must be spoken. Not in gossip. Not in corners. But here.”

You removed the scroll from your cloak. Held it up. “A false paternity decree. Forged with royal ink. Sealed with a lie.” A gasp, "Such lies, treason, I-" Irene exploded.

Lady Victoria stepped forward, her voice low and measured. “A pregnancy conceived through a servant. A plan to poison the prince after the birth. A child passed off as Vredon’s heir. And a crown stolen through murder.” The room erupted. Nobles shouted. The King rose.

And still, Sunghoon stared at you.

“Lies!” Irene snapped. “She’s bitter. She’s desperate. This is jealousy!” “Then deny it,” Victoria said coolly. “Swear on your unborn child.” Irene opened her mouth—then shut it.

The silence was damning. You stepped closer. “You threatened him. You used me. You tried to make me small enough to step over. But I am not your stepping stone. I am the voice that ends you.”

And then, he moved.

For the first time since your arrival, Sunghoon stepped away from Irene. And came to stand before you. His voice was quiet. So quiet you thought it might break.

“Is it true?” He questioned it like there were no need to clarify. It's as if he already knew.

You looked up at him, at the boy you knew, the man you almost had, and the prince who still looked at you like you were his only kingdom.

“It’s all true.” His gaze didn’t waver. Not once. Not even as guards approached Irene. Not even as the king of Solis shouted for order.

“You tried to protect me,” he whispered. “I tried to forget you,” you said. “I failed.”

And then, before the entire court-

He bowed to you.

Not as a prince. Not as a ruler. But as a man. “There will be no wedding,” he said, voice clear now. “There will be no crown bought with poison.”

He turned to the assembly. “I will not marry a queen who kills. I will marry the one who dared to save me.”

The court dissolved in chaos.

Irene was taken screaming, still denying, still clawing at dignity she never had. Your father refused to meet your gaze as he was escorted from the royal box, his silence more vicious than a curse.

But none of it mattered. Because you walked away. Not to flee. Not to cry.

But because you needed air. The garden had always been quieter than the court. Where the roses didn’t lie. Where power didn’t perform. Where no one asked you to smile.

You stood alone beneath the withering vines, fingers wrapped around the edge of the marble railing, trying not to collapse.

Until, “Y/n.”

You didn’t turn. Not yet.

“You saved my life.” Still, you didn’t speak. And then, large, warm hands. Like the engulfing feeling of home. On your waist. Light at first, like he wasn’t sure he had the right.

“You always saved me.” Your voice broke. “You never chose me.”

Silence. “Not when I needed it. Not when I begged you with my eyes. Not when you saw me crying in that hall.” “I know.” “You let her win.” “I did.”

You turned to him, finally. Eyes blazing. “Then why are you here?” And he said it. He fucking said it— “Because I would rather lose a kingdom than lose you again.”

He didn’t kiss you like apology. He kissed you like he was starving.

Like he’d waited five years, and an almost-marriage, and a war made of lies, to breathe again.

His hand gripped your jaw, the other pressed to your ribs like he could feel your pulse breaking beneath his palm.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your mouth. “I’m sorry it took me this long. I’m sorry I was a coward. I’m sorry I didn’t say it when it would’ve saved us.”

You didn’t say it either. You didn’t need to. Because you kissed him back like the answer had always been yes.

"I-" he shyed away, you raised an amused brow, "I have a ring for you-" He took out a soft, black velvet box, and opened it. You gasped, it was a ring of crowned in an enormous red ruby, rimmed by rose gold.

You kissed him once more, he smiled as he slipped the ring onto your finger.

------

Three days later, in a throne room that now smelled like roses instead of rot, they crowned him king.

He accepted the crown with solemn hands. But he turned, before placing it on his own head. “This is not just mine.” And he gestured to you.

“This is hers. She is not my queen because she married me. She is my queen because she stood for this kingdom when no one else did. Because she did not need a throne to wield power.”

He turned. You stepped forward, dressed not in white.

But in Laverity black, with feathers down your sleeves and stormlight in your bones. He placed the crown, not on your head.

But on your palm. “You don’t wear a crown,” he said. “You choose it.” You looked at him. Then you placed the crown on his brow, “Then I choose you.”

------

It wasn’t supposed to happen. But it was meant to.

Not after what they’d survived. Not with the court still whispering, the crowns still warm, the memory of betrayal still clinging to their skin. But that night.

You didn't love him carefully. You loved him completely.

In the quiet of his chambers, now yours too. He kissed you like a man starved for language, and you answered with the only fluency you had left: devotion. “You’re not mine to ruin,” he whispered, as your back met velvet. “I was yours to ruin all along.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to.

Because your hands were writing poems across his spine.

Because when the crown was off, the world faded, and it was just you.

You, and the man who had chosen you at last.

You, and the weight of a kingdom between your thighs.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." he growled, as he slid in and out of you, you whimpered, "I fucking love you so much, seneschal." You gasped, latching onto his hair, "Q-queen-" you breathed out. He smirked, his eyes full of adoration, "Of course, my queen."

And afterwards, when you lay in his arms, sweat-soaked and starsick, he kissed your temple and said, “Tell me this wasn’t just survival.”

You smiled into his chest. “This was revenge.” The court whispered louder now. Not of war. Not of scandal.

But of the way the Queen held her stomach as she walked the halls. The way she glowed like prophecy. And Sunghoon, High King, once composed, once carved of restraint, could not stop smiling.

He let ministers talk, let treaties roll in, let entire nobles’ houses rise and fall, but whenever you entered the room, he stood. Always. Like loving you was still a rebellion.

It arrived in the middle of council. A plain envelope. No seal. Just your name in your father’s cruel script. You opened it in silence.

Y/n, I hear you wear a crown now. And carry an heir. I pray you raise them with more strength than defiance. We both lost what mattered—but you… you took it from me. May the gods forgive us both.

You read it once. Then again. And then you smiled.

Not out of joy. Not from pain. But because it no longer mattered.

You folded the paper once. Twice. Pressed it between your palms like a dead thing, and tore it straight down the middle.

You weren’t his anymore. You never would be again.

To Rule Is To Ruin And Yet, You Chose It Anyway. CROWNLESS. Until You Weren't.

The End

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